


Cool Down

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Extreme Deadline Treat, M/M, informal D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: Seth and Dean, a little rope work, and the hotel bar.





	Cool Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uistic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uistic/gifts).



“Club soda with lime for me,” Seth says. “And he’ll have orange juice and an order of fries.”

The hotel bartender moves off to fill their glasses without any reaction, but Dean makes up for it with his way-too-amused mutinous smirk. “Really, mom? You ever think that maybe I wanted a banana split?”

“I think that you shouldn’t call me ‘mom’ if you don’t want the night to end just yet.” It’s not a serious threat and they both know it; there are so many fresh coils of rope fanned out over the comforter in the room upstairs that it should be clear that Seth’s not ready to call it a night any more than Dean is. Under the bar, he rests a palm against Dean’s thigh, and feels the muscle there quiver a little, still recovering from the stress of the last position.

“Fair enough.” Dean laughs, and gives a jaunty little toast with the o.j. when it arrives.

For all that he hasn’t quit running his mouth for more than a minute all night, Dean’s definitely having fun. Seth lets himself feel warm, proud and grateful, about being the one to orchestrate that, about how much time and care it’s taken them both to get back to this place with each other.

The tv in front of them is tuned to a Reds’ game; they’re carrying a one-run lead into the eighth inning, and Dean does shut up for a little bit to watch whether they’ll find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Seth takes the opportunity to watch him.

The bartender is too distracted or too discreet to register any recognition, but Seth feels a little thrill of exposure at how unsubtle they’re being. Sure, Dean’s black button-down covers all the lines and loops and precise knots of the harness woven around his chest, and it’s rumpled enough from the journey in his bag that a casual glance might miss how the fabric doesn’t stretch smoothly across his broad shoulders. Still, the cuffs are unbuttoned, offering up a little peek of reddened wrist when Dean pumps his fist at a timely double-play in Cincinnati, or tips the bottle up to drown his fries in a frankly appalling amount of ketchup. Even if someone had managed to miss that part of the picture, the steadily-darkening bite mark above Dean’s collar and the state of his hair - sweat-damp and curling riotously at his temples and the base of his neck, the back hopelessly disheveled by the blindfold - can’t leave much doubt that they’re doing anything other than refueling for round two.

He takes another sip of his cold, fizzy water and gives himself a moment to imagine having left the shirt upstairs: Dean moving through the hallway and down the elevator and across the lobby with the whole world able to see the intricate overlay of blue cord turning his already-beautiful body into a deliberate work of art. Seth feeding him the fries because complicated sleeves of wound and twisted rope keep him from bringing his own hands up high enough and no one else has earned the right to see him bow his head and lick the plate clean.

Almost like he’s halfway read his mind, Dean turns to him and presses a couple of long, crispy fries past his lips. He swipes a thumb along the curve of Seth’s mouth to recapture the dollop of ketchup left behind, and pops it back into his own mouth alongside another fry, eyes hot on Seth’s the entire time. Pushy and messy and provocative, it’s the kind of thing that might earn him a punishment when they get back upstairs. Going by the wolfish grin on his face as he reaches for the juice glass to drain, he’s counting on it.

He takes his hand away from Dean’s trembling thigh and resettles it on his shoulder, tracing the path of one line of strong cord through his shirt. He presses the pad of his thumb against the top of a square knot, digging the shape of it into his skin just enough to turn Dean’s breath into an expectant hiss, and signals for the tab.


End file.
